


Fallen/Angel

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Meetings, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Mild Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Relationship History, Romance, Sleepy Cuddles, all the way from Eden to post-Nopocalypse, snake form early on only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: 6000 years of Crowley's relationship with Aziraphale -- mostly good, and it always comes right in the end anyway.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	Fallen/Angel

He burned.

He did not know why he burned.

Once there had been a heaven for him, a place of love and safety. Once he had joy in companionship. And he had serenity, and he had the stars.

There had been a home. Where had it fled?

He fell, and he burned, and he did not know why. 

_What have I done?_

_God Almighty in Heaven, what have I done?_

There came no answer.

His wings turned black. 

In the pit of Hell, he groomed them as he had always done when they were white. Always he did this alone -- if he could find a dank corner of solace in this crowded, fetid world. None of the hideous creatures who roamed here should see his wings. None of them showed their wings, if they still had them. They reveled in their demonic forms.

But he didn’t. He hadn’t asked to be a demon.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Lord Beezlebub told him, the one time he had asked _why_. 

“This is not my home,” he had replied.

“It izz _now_. And always will be.”

“These are not my companions.” Strangers, every one. “How can I live _here_?”

There came no answer.

So he took comfort in grooming his wings, his reminder of Heaven, a place which those all around him had scorned and forsaken.

Not that he would ever soar again.

He’d had a name in Heaven but it was no longer his, the longer he dwelled in the shadows. He slid tightly alongside the walls, keeping out of touch of the others, and where he couldn’t avoid the throng, he slithered between them deftly, quickly, ever seeking a quiet place where none existed.

The demons noticed.

“ _That_ one,” they said to each other, “doesn’t fit in.”

“Thinks he’s above us, the bastard.”

“He’s cold. Like a lizard.”

“Or a snake.”

“Exactly like a snake.”

“Let’s make him shed his skin, shall we?”

They found him, off in a small dank room, with his feathers unfurled. They snatched at his wings, clawing, tearing. Pain seared through him, and he screamed.

“ _Crawl_ ,” the leader hissed. “Crawl like the miserable serpent you’re meant to be. You’ll never fly again.”

They threw him to the cold, dank floor. “ _Crawl!”_

He drew his battered wings inside his back, hidden, safe. He felt a heavy boot slam into his side. Then another, and another, battering him down and down until his soul nearly fled his corporeal form. Until he had a thought…a saving thought, grasped from the tormentors themselves.

_Like a serpent_ ….

Why not? It couldn’t be worse than this.

He focused what remaining energy he had into the first demonic miracle he’d ever performed, focused on his own body as he thought about the way a snake slides and slithers and hides. He snapped his fingers and slipped into a serpentine form.

The kicking abruptly halted, the demons surprised. And in that brief respite, he rapidly slid out of the room and away.

And it was better then, for a while.

He found he could go up the walls, and onto the ceilings, and steer clear of Hell’s denizens. He could hide inside the drain pipes. He could coil around a dark post in a dark corner in his dark scaly skin where no one even noticed him.

They thought they were punishing him, but instead they gave him a form of freedom, however slight, that he clung to and cherished. And they gave him a new name.

_Crawly_.

Then one day, a day that would change his life forever, Hell needed a demon to dwell on Earth.

“Bring me _that_ one,” Lord Beezlebub decided. “Crawly. He doesn’t _fit_ down here.”

He came before his master, coiled, head raised, looking out of black-slitted, golden eyes. “Yesssss?”

A globe appeared inside the chamber, slowly circling in mid-air, softly glowing. 

Beezlebub pointed to it. “Go up there and make some trouble.”

The _Earth_. He’d never been on Earth. Would it be an improvement on Hell? He dearly hoped so.

“Yessss, Lord.”

“And do a bad job, or else you come back. I don’t want to hear of anything _good_ happening there from _you_.”

A bad job? He felt this was not beyond his capabilities at all. 

“I will,” he hissed, and then he slithered into the glowing globe.

Into Eden.

The first thing he noticed was the lack of fetid aromas.

There was sunlight, and grass, there was a blue sky with clouds that nearly made him cry out. There was a lush garden, laden with fruit.

The second thing he noticed was the Angel.

Crawly spotted him by the Eastern Gate, simply standing there, all in white, holding a flaming sword.

He slithered through the grass, unseen, for a closer view. He hadn’t seen an angel in some time. This one seemed harmless enough.

A sudden, golden light shone down upon the angel, who gazed upward expectantly, and somewhat nervously.

Crawly shrank back a ways as a Voice called down from the light.

“Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

God’s voice. He’d never thought to hear it again, and wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to. Yet he stayed.

“Yes, Lord?” the angel replied.

“There has been a disturbance in the Garden. Be wary. Keep an eye on the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Adam and Eve must not eat of the fruit thereof.”

“Of course not. I’ll see to it. Apple tree duty, yes. Got it. Um…what sort of disturbance would that be?”

He certainly sounded anxious.

But there came no answer, which did not surprise Crawly in the slightest. He was used to not getting answers by now. 

He watched and waited. 

He watched Aziraphale, who sometimes stood guard by the Gate, and sometimes stood guard by the tree in the center of the garden.

He watched the two humans, Adam and Eve, who seemed to be having a pretty nice time.

And why shouldn’t they? It was a very nice place, Earth. The days were always warm, the sun always shone. The plants grew lushly, there were no dangers anywhere. There certainly weren’t any dank, smelly hallways or roving malicious demons. They were all in Hell. He was the only one up here.

The Angel, it appeared, was the only one from Heaven here as well. Odd.

He supposed he ought to do what he’d been instructed to do, though, and make some trouble. Badly.

So he crawled up to Eve and whispered a temptation into her ear, at a time when Aziraphale wasn’t guarding the tree. He was safely off at the Eastern Gate. _Eat the apple_. _The knowledge of good and evil shall be yours_.

Simple.

He didn’t believe it would actually lead to anything bad – maybe a slap on the wrist, or a stern warning not to do it again. Of course, he should have known better. He should have remembered.

After all, he’d been thrown out of Heaven for merely asking a question or two too many, and for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

_Damn_.

When the humans had been cast out, he felt sorry for them. And wondered if he’d done the wrong thing. 

And so he went to talk to the Angel.

He didn’t think a serpentine form would do for a proper conversation, and why would he keep it now anyway, now that he no longer dwelled in that crowded Hell where it had been essential for his sanity? He didn’t need it any longer, not if they let him stay up here.

Crawly slithered up the walls of Eden and right into his old human form, with wings unfurled. He sighed. He hadn’t felt his wings in so long. So much better.

And he spoke with Aziraphale, who turned out to be a rather gentle fellow, as one might expect of an angel. A bit of a confused one, too. Seemed to not know what the Almighty was planning. Ineffable? What kind of deity went around toying with creation in unknowable ways?

Another one of his unanswerable questions.

The angel had given away his flaming sword to the humans. Possibly not a good idea, one that Crawly found mildly amusing. What if the angel had done the wrong thing, too? 

Bit ironic, that.

It started to rain. Aziraphale raised one wing over Crawly.

_Interesting_.

He wondered if the angel would stay on Earth. 

Time passed. A whole lot of time passed.

The humans multiplied, and got a lot more interesting, and a lot more civilized. He liked that.

Hell didn’t seem to care about him that much, which he liked even better. Once in a while he sent down a report about the trouble he’d caused, badly, and they seemed to find that acceptable. Often they’d send up messages about specific temptations they wanted, or minor disruptions and mishaps he ought to cause. It wasn’t difficult work, nor did it seem terribly harmful all in all. The humans, he’d soon discovered, were quite good at doing themselves harm without his assistance.

So he started taking credit for as many human-caused woes as he could, and found that Hell believed him. He felt rather smart and cool for fooling them. He felt _good_. 

He hadn’t felt good in such a long time.

Maybe, he thought for the first time, being damned was something he could get used to, so long as he didn’t have to work very hard.

And so long as he could stay up here, with the sunlight and the grass and the blue skies. All he had to do was keep them thinking he was the best at what he did.

All he had to do was be smart and imaginative. 

_Simple_.

Then there was Aziraphale.

The angel had a tendency to turn up wherever Crawly happened to be at any given moment. He could sense the angel’s presence, so he assumed the angel could sense his, seeing as how they were the only supernatural entities on Earth, as far as he knew. So it didn’t exactly surprise him that Aziraphale would know where he was – what surprised him was that the angel seemed to deliberately seek him out.

It happened with fair regularity during that first thousand years before the Great Flood. Crawly decided he must be lonely.

“What have you been up to, then?” he asked one day in a small trading post in Egypt, where Aziraphale had popped up, as usual, apparently just to say hello.

“I’ve been tending to a flock of sick goats,” the angel replied. “And you?”

“I’m tempting a young woman to sleep with her brother. Not that it’s hard to do here – they seem to like that sort of thing.”

“Good Heavens. The very idea!”

“Well, _I_ didn’t think it up. That’s one the humans thought up all by themselves. They’re clever that way.”

The angel looked thoughtful. “Yes, they do seem to get up to all sorts of things that I would never have imagined.”

They found the man who ran the trading post, where goods and victuals of all kinds were available, including Crawly’s favorite human invention – wine.

He bought a jug and shared it out with the angel. 

“Mm. Lovely. Do you suppose they have any dates? I do like dates.”

Crawly bought him some dates. He tried one himself, but left the rest for the angel, who seemed to enjoy food. He could take it or leave it himself. Wine, though – that he would definitely _take_.

“Where are you off to next, then?” Crawly asked.

“I’m meant to go to some out of the way spot in Mesopotamia soon. I’m getting hints from Above that something big is afoot.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” The last thing he wanted was another big thing. The Fall had been big enough to last a lifetime. Which, for him, was all of time. “What’s the Almighty up to now?”

The angel shrugged. “Don’t know. It’s ineffable.”

“Right. Ineffable. Nice way to get around the truth.”

Aziraphale frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ , the Almighty probably doesn’t know what’s going on, either. Just making it up for a lark.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“Sorry. Call it as I see it.”

“Well, I don’t agree with you at all.” Aziraphale paused. “But then, I’m an angel and you’re a demon – I’m not _supposed_ to agree with you. About anything.”

“Really? You seem to agree that this wine is quite tasty. The wine that _I_ bought.”

“Yes, well, fine.” The angel stopped drinking. “Keep it.”

“No need to get tetchy.” _Honestly_.

“I am not _tetchy_ , as you say. Merely wondering why I’m even talking to you about God’s plans. Or about anything else, for that matter.”

“You’re the one who found _me_ here, remember? I didn’t go looking for _you_.” 

Aziraphale shuffled his feet, looking downcast. “Well, I got bored.”

“Oh, so you only come looking for me when you don’t have anything better to do, is that it?” Crawly didn’t need _that_ kind of companionship. “Bugger off, then.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how _did_ you mean it?” He waved a dismissive hand at the irritating fellow. "Just go away.”

“Fine.” Aziraphale started off.

Crowley hadn’t truly meant it. “Sorry,” he called after him.

But Aziraphale kept walking.

He didn’t really want to go looking for the angel in Mesopotamia.

But he did.

Time was a funny thing. It went on and on and on and on and never stopped, yet everything else stopped eventually. Plants stopped growing and died. Animals stopped wandering about, and died. People stopped living and loving and creating and doing and died.

Angels and demons were like Time. They just went on and on and on and on and never died.

He had a human form, yet it didn’t age. He ate sometimes, though he didn’t need to. He liked to sleep, because it helped make the time go faster. 

Sometimes there was a little pain now and then – he got hit by a falling branch in a windstorm once, and broke an arm. Only a moment of pain – then he performed a demonic miracle to heal it. He got frostbitten once in the Himalayas and vowed never to return there. A sandstorm caught him in Mongolia, nearly burying him before he managed to snap his fingers to get away.

He ate bad food or drank bad water at times, and grew ill for a short while before healing himself. He didn’t understand how the humans could stand it, being sick without any healing, being hurt without any comfort, and dying so soon after being born. 

The Divine Plan, he decided, was not to his liking. Not that diabolical plans were any fun, either.

So he survived the onward march of Time on Earth, while the humans around him didn’t. 

And while Aziraphale did.

Crawly did take periodic jaunts back to Hell. Lord Beezlebub expected him to show up in person, as it were, at least once a year or so to give a fuller report on how things up top were going. No one bothered him there – it was merely a quick in and out. Not exactly taxing.

But these trips served to remind him of all that he would lose should he ever botch up his job, if Hell ever decided to call him back permanently. 

He doubted if Hell would approve of his spending time with an angel.

It was a risk, and yet he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t quite bring himself to dwell on Earth alone. 

There were millions of humans here now. Millions of people he could talk to, have a drink with, or pretend to care about others the way he saw them do – becoming friends. 

He could talk with them, yes. He did. And he could have a drink or go to a gathering, a party, a festival, or a play with them. And he did.

He could not become friends with them. They didn’t know what he was – while he knew what they were. They were humans who didn’t survive the march of Time.

It was risky, seeking out the only other being on Earth who understood. 

It was worth it.

Though after he found Aziraphale in Mesopotamia, and learned what the Almighty planned, he was aghast. _Drowning them all? Even the young ones?_

At that one moment, Crawly wasn’t sure that Hell hadn’t somehow switched places with Heaven.

_Why?_

Aziraphale had no answers.

  
He changed his name to Crowley. The whole snake thing just wasn’t working for him anymore. Not that he didn’t revert once in a great while, just to be sure he still could. You never knew when it might come in handy.

But for the most part, he enjoyed being in human form – sometimes appearing female, though mostly male. Humans made it hard to be female. He had more choices in male form, plain and simple.

Not that the world was plain or simple. It went on being inhabited by people who liked to fight with each other, to maim and to kill, to rob and to rape, and who didn’t value life the way they should. His tasks seemed like merely a demonic drop in an ocean of human-created Hell. Why had they ever bothered to send him here?

He worried that they might notice this someday, so Crowley made sure to make claims that weren’t true. He told them that he caused plagues when he hadn’t, and took credit for wars that he didn’t start. Wherever trouble raised its head, he went there, looking for ways to make it his own.

Aziraphale went looking for the same trouble spots, trying to work miracles to ease them. Sometimes he did, but many times when Crowley ran across him, he found the angel despairing of ever making anything right or good.

“I keep performing small miracles,” he told Crowley one day. “And the silly people keep messing it all up again in no time. Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing real good, or merely delaying evil.”

“Well, you stopped those Vandals from ransacking Rome last week, didn’t you? That was definitely a good thing.”

“Oh, really? Thank you.” Then the angel sighed. “But somehow I have a feeling that they’ll be back. It’s all rather a mess hereabouts.”

Crowley shrugged. “Maybe you should get out and about more. I hear Britannia is nice this time of year.”

“Hm. You could be right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m going there myself.”

Aziraphale brightened. “Are you?”

“Yeah – got a few jobs to do. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Yes. Yes, you might very well.”

_Risky_ , he told himself. 

But at least he wouldn’t be there alone.

Crowley came to like Britain, when it wasn’t too damp out.

Then one day early in the sixth century, while swaggering about as the Black Knight pretending to be cool, he ran across the angel, and had a brilliant idea. After all, it was _damp_. Why spend so much of the time outdoors? His efforts often cancelled out Aziraphale’s. Why go to so much trouble – he thought his suggestion that they merely report that they’d done their tasks was logical. Hell didn’t check. 

Heaven, though, apparently had the angel under its thumb. Or wing. Whatever – he was too worried, as usual, about what they would think up there. As if they’d ever find out.

So they argued, and things weren’t so bright after that for a while. 

Sure, they ran into each other, but they weren’t as comfortable in each other’s presence. Aziraphale often seemed twitchy around him, as if Crowley were about to suggest he do something infernal. Which he wasn’t. He just wanted to be _practical_.

And he didn’t want to be alone with eternity.

In the late eighth century, Crowley found the key to reaching Aziraphale’s heart and soul.

The angel loved the written word.

He should have realized it long ago – when he thought back over their encounters across the centuries, Crowley remembered how often the angel mentioned a scroll he’d recently come across that he was excited to read. It meant nothing to Crowley, reading for pleasure – only as a source of information. He hadn’t paid much attention to Aziraphale’s joy at every new work that came his way.

And later, he had been waxing rhapsodic over illuminated manuscripts. Which he was doing on that rainy day in Londinium in the eighth century.

They sat in an alehouse, where Crowley had a flagon of wine to share while Aziraphale picked over a roast chicken. He seemed lackluster in his eating – unusual enough for Crowley to notice. “Something amiss?”

The angel sighed. “I have to go to the Frankish kingdom, straight away. Apparently there’s a fellow I’m to help with peace and unification. Called Charlemagne.”

“Doesn’t sound bad.”

“But it’s terrible timing!” Aziraphale actually shoved his plate away, the chicken only half-eaten. “I just got a reliable report from upstairs that the monastery at Lindisfarne is about to be sacked. I _can’t_ let that happen! They’ll destroy all the books!”

“Books? It’s not the monks you’re worried about?”

“Well, yes, I suppose that would be bad, too.”

“You can’t nip up there before heading to the continent?”

“No. I can’t.” The angel cast him a sheepish look. “Gabriel found out that I’d been off collecting old manuscripts last week instead of doing a little work that really could have waited.” He swallowed. “I got a reprimand.”

Crowley couldn’t help smiling at the angel’s discomfort, at the fact that even a “good” angel could get into trouble with his old lot. “What a load of wankers.”

“My dear fellow! You mustn’t say things like that out loud.”

_Dear fellow?_ When had he become dear? “Why not? They’re not listening to everything, you know.” 

“I _don’t_ know.” Aziraphale glanced nervously around the room. 

“Here, have another drink.” Crowley passed over the flagon.

The angel drank a good portion before handing it back. “I wish I could _do_ something to save those books.”

That was when it hit Crowley. _He_ could save them. Ideas flew through his mind faster than he could catch up with them, ideas about helping each other out, about saving each other time – and not wasting time tramping around in damp places.

But he’d have to make the first sacrifice. He’d have to go tramping up to Northumberland, probably getting very wet in the process, to snag the books. In the end, it would be worth it. Aziraphale would have to agree with him that they could work more efficiently together, wouldn’t he?

“I have an idea,” he said.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Not sure I’m going to like it.”

“You will. Why don’t I go to Lindisfarne? I haven’t got anything on this week.”

The other eyebrow shot up as the angel gasped. “ _Would_ you? You’d save the books for me?”

Crowley gave a nonchalant shrug, as if he thought of brilliant solutions every day. “Why not?”

“But won’t you get into trouble, doing _me_ a favor?”

“I’m telling you, they don’t pay that much attention. So long as things get done, _nobody_ is paying attention. Has Gabriel sent you any commendations for jobs well done lately?”

“Well, now that you mention it – no, he hasn’t. Not for years.”

“See? It’s like I said – you only have to send in reports, and they don’t care. He only noticed when you _didn’t_ do your job. Is that fair?”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “When you put it like that…no, it’s _not_ fair.”

“Right. So here’s my plan. I go rescue the books, you go off to do your duty with the Franks, everybody is happy. And the next time you need a favor…or I need a favor…we do it again. Say, for example, you’ve got a blessing to do in the ruddy Hebrides, and I’ve got a tempting that same way – would be easier if only one of us went and did both.”

“ _Both?_ ”

“We can, you know. Then we each file our own report. You know what that would mean?”

“I knew I wouldn’t like this, that’s what it means.”

“No, no, you’re not seeing the bigger idea.”

Aziraphale gave him a questioning look. “Which is?”

“ _Time_ , Angel. It would give us both more time to do what we really _want_ to be doing.” He smiled as he struck home to Aziraphale’s heart and soul with his _coup de grace_. “Such as collecting old manuscripts.”

A sudden joy spread over the angel’s face. “Oh, I say, that _is_ an idea!”

Crowley drank off the last of the wine. “Bloody brilliant arrangement, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale reached for his plate of chicken and picked up a piece. He smiled. “It just might work,” he said as he popped it into his mouth.

It did work. 

The Arrangement, as they came to call it, became a regular feature of their get-togethers over the ensuing centuries. And as Crowley had said, no one seemed to care, or truly notice, how things got done. 

Time moved on, as always. The humans kept inventing better and more wonderful things. Crowley loved anything new, especially anything that made life in human form more entertaining, or easier to deal with – eyeglasses, for instance, which he ran across in Italy in the late 13th century. They were a vast improvement over the primitive version he’d come across in ancient Rome, which he could barely see out of and had given up long since. The 13th century Italians proved much better at creating lenses. No more curious stares at his serpentine eyes, no more suspicion that occasionally ran over into outright attacks. Now he could hide them from a prying human world.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, was thrilled by the printing press, and spent much of the late 15th century buying up books with great extravagance. Where he intended to put them all, Crowley couldn’t imagine. Mostly they wound up in warehouses “until I find a more permanent location,” the angel told him.

Not all of humanity’s progress was upward, though. He could have done without the fourteenth century and its onslaught of plagues. In fact, a lot of the Middle Ages rubbed him the wrong way, and when the Renaissance promised a more enlightened age, he couldn’t leave the medieval world in the dust fast enough.

Aziraphale didn’t seem that bothered. He seemed to amble slowly through life and the ages with a moderation bordering on stultifying. Clothing styles changed over time, yet the angel never noticed until he started to attract undue notice from the humans for his eccentric dress. Then he would reluctantly update it, complaining all the way.

Technologies changed over time, but Aziraphale ignored much of it, unless he needed to know, and then he usually tracked Crowley down to explain new things to him. Which Crowley patiently did, while wondering if the angel would ever decide to live in the present century.

On the whole, everything worked well for a long, long time. They met often, in restaurants or taverns or other secluded spots – no need to tempt fate by meeting out in the open. He enjoyed Aziraphale’s company. After losing companionship in Heaven all those millennia ago, Crowley relished having someone he considered a friend.

He believed it was two-sided. Aziraphale seemed to enjoy his company, too. He smiled at him a lot, and he laughed whenever Crowley made an amusing remark. 

Once in a while, though, Aziraphale would remember that they were on opposite sides. Every once in a while, Crowley would forget that the angel was touchy about Heaven, and he’d say something critical of the Almighty, which would cause Aziraphale to defend the damned “ineffable” plan. 

Typically this happened when Crowley had too much to drink, and he’d go off on whatever the latest atrocity happened to be. “Are you really telling me that the Black Death was part of the ineffable bloody plan?” Or the like. To which Aziraphale would say, “It’s not our part to judge,” in that prim manner of his that made Crowley want to scream. 

“To hell with the plan!”

“I wish you wouldn’t shout such things,” Aziraphale would say. Primly. Maddeningly.

“ _Somebody_ ought to,” Crowley would reply.

“Well, I don’t have to listen, do I?” And he would go off, and not talk to Crowley for far too long, until Crowley felt desperate for his company again and tracked him down to apologize.

He wanted the angel’s friendship. He treasured it.

Yet he wasn’t entirely sure that _he_ should always be the one who said he was sorry.

He almost burned again.

Fifteenth century, and he’d been swaggering about, full of confidence that Hell loved him, because he’d convinced them that he started the Spanish Inquisition. Bloody amazing humans, coming up with that bit of insanity.

Then he got careless. He’d been walking out of a tavern in Madrid late one night when two robbers attacked. No problem – with a simple snap of his fingers, he transported them to the heart of Africa. 

The problem was the three other tavern customers who had stepped out at the same time, and saw the whole thing. “By God, the man’s a witch!” one cried.

“Not by God,” Crowley replied, drunk and annoyed by their ignorance. “I’ll be damned if I’m anything of God’s!”

And careless. They were on him before he had time to speak another word, and they grabbed his hands to keep them still, and bound him before he could act. 

He found it faintly ironic that “his” Inquisition nearly killed him. Or rather, inconveniently discorporated him, and even more amusing that it wasn’t for witchcraft that they tried him. The Inquisition didn’t bother with witchcraft accusations unless accompanied by heresy.

Well, he had certainly proved a heretic.

They beat him and tortured him, even though he was perfectly willing to confess. He spent a week in pain, hands always bound, until they released him from prison only to haul him towards a stake. 

He almost burned. 

Crowley hated burning.

And he would have, for he was tied to the stake, and the wood around his feet was put to the torch, and the smoke rose, choking him, and flames flickered around his legs, searing through his skin – until something _shifted_ and changed.

He wasn’t on the stake. There were no flames. His hands were no longer bound.

He was lying on a cot in a small, dim room, and an angel knelt by his side. “ _Aziraphale_ ….”

“Can’t have you going around being discorporated, Crowley. That wouldn’t do _at_ all.”

He tried to offer his gratitude but only a moan came out. His legs were blistered from the fire. 

“There, there, I’ll take care of it.” Aziraphale held his hands over Crowley’s legs. The pain receded. “All right?”

“Yes.” He closed his eyes. “Thank you.” So tired…he hadn’t felt so tired before. There were welts on his back from the torture session…he said nothing about them.

“I don’t think this is a very safe place to be at the moment. Perhaps a change of scenery is in order.”

“Good idea.” He winced as a lash of pain darted across his back.

“Are you sure you’re all right? Let me see.”

“No. I’m fine.” But he couldn’t control his grimace at the shooting stabs of pain from dozens of lacerations.

Aziraphale calmly and gently rolled him onto his side and lifted up his shirt. “Ah. I might have known. Standard practice, torturing heretics.”

“Right. And as I recall, they’re meant to be the good guys.” Even as he said it, Crowley wanted to bite the words back. The angel had _saved_ him. And there he went, questioning the great plan again. He sighed. “Sorry.”

There was a silence for a while. Then he felt the wounds healing, felt warmth and love coming from the angel as the lacerations knit together.

He rolled onto his healed back and looked at Aziraphale. “You’re not supposed to do that, you know. What if Gabriel found out?”

Aziraphale lay his hand on Crowley’s arm. “Angels are _supposed_ to help the injured, the sick, and the dying.”

“Only if they’re human.”

“Or animals.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Exasperating fellow. “But not _demons_.”

“You can’t help what you are.” 

Crowley stared at him. “Is that right?” _Your lot made me what I am_. It took a great effort of will not to say it aloud.

“Yes.” Aziraphale patted his arm. “You are also my friend.”

_My dear fellow…._ Crowley put his hand on top of the angel’s and gently squeezed it. “Don’t say another word. You never know who might be listening.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale let go his hand and stood. “Now, then, as to where we should go to get away from these wretched people – perhaps you could suggest to your lot that the Italian city-states are due for a bit of deviltry.”

“Why do you say that? Is your lot sending you there?”

“Indeed they are. Milan, apparently, is in frequent turmoil and could use a few miracles here and there.” Aziraphale rubbed his hands and smiled. “I hear that Duke Sforza throws galas with the most sumptuous banquets.”

“Sounds good. Not a backwater, then.”

“Heavens, no. Very forward looking – I hear there’s a fellow working for the duke who designs amazing marvels, they say he’s a genius, da Vinci something. Not my cup of tea, mind you. I’m going for the food, my dear boy. But I imagine _you_ might enjoy meeting him.”

“I might at that.” 

It turned out that Aziraphale was quite right.

There were glorious days. He laughed, and drank, and gambled, and he _danced_. There were times he almost forgot he wasn’t human.

Crowley even made his first human friend in Leonardo, entranced by his intellect, his thirsting curiosity, his astounding talents. They had good times together, though he knew that he couldn’t be everything Leo wanted. A beautiful man who loved other men – not something Crowley could do anything about, not being human. Neither angels nor demons were sexual beings. It wasn’t something he ever thought much about.

Da Vinci found his solace elsewhere.

But they had glorious days, until time passed, as it always did, and Leonardo breathed his last. 

His first ever human friend would also be his last ever human friend. There was never another one like him.

In 1793 Crowley repaid Aziraphale by saving his neck from the guillotine in Paris. Silly bugger, running over there just to eat crepes. The angel had a definite addiction to fine food, one that he didn’t understand. 

Though he _did_ enjoy watching Aziraphale eat. There was a sensuality in the expression of his pleasure that Crowley found fascinating. Unusual, for an angel. _  
_He watched him eat his crepes that memorable day, watched how Aziraphale’s eyes would close at a particularly tasty bite, and how he let out soft sighs. Crowley took a sample himself, wanting to feel the same intensity – and the taste was good, a subtle mix of sweet and savory that he didn’t expect – though not exquisite.

Clearly, Aziraphale found the food exquisite, and that intrigued him. Had he ever felt that way? He remembered consuming food in Heaven – always an option, though never needed and often frowned upon by the Archangels. Crowley couldn’t recall ever tasting anything there that sent him into the throes of ecstasy.

“Angel,” he said as he set down his fork, “Do the humans make better food than Heaven?”

“Naturally. Heavenly food is too ethereal. Only humans know what these bodies truly enjoy – food with _substance_.”

“Ah. I had no idea.” Alcohol, however, was another matter. He picked up his glass of champagne. “They obviously know what drinks their bodies crave.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale picked up his own glass and sipped down the bubbly liquid. “Can’t get _this_ in Heaven – ambrosia is tame in comparison.”

Crowley had an unsettling thought. “Do you ever worry they’ll send you back there someday?”

A fizz of champagne sputtered across the table as Aziraphale nearly choked on his drink. He dabbed his face with the napkin. “ _Don’t_ say things like that, my dear fellow! Horrid notion.”

“Well, we’ve both been here a _very_ long time.” He certainly never wanted to return to Hell. “You never know what might happen.”

“I don’t want to think about it. I’m opening that bookshop – it’s going to be _wonderful_. They simply can’t take me away now that I’ll finally have a place for my collection.”

Crowley considered this for a bit. “You _do_ know that people come into bookshops and try to _buy_ books, yes?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Yes, well, I suppose they do. But it was the best way I could think of to have all my books in one place where I could see them and read them and well, live with them around me all the time.” He speared another piece of his crepe. “I’ll just have to find ways to discourage customers.”

“Keep it closed,” Crowley suggested as he watched the angel savor the crepe. 

Aziraphale swallowed. “Yes, that’s good. And I could buy up a lot of whatever is popular reading to put in the front of the shop – I won’t care if they buy those books.”

Crowley wondered how he would even know what was popular in the current day when the angel didn’t pay attention to anything new, but he let that pass. “You’re going to live in the shop?”

“Of course I am. Just put a few rooms in the back or upstairs. I found a perfect building, about a mile north of St. James’s Park. Lovely area. You’ll come see it, won’t you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” St. James’s Park…Crowley had been living in London for a while, in Mayfair. “We’ll practically be neighbors, after all.”

“Oh? Oh, yes, I suppose we will be.” He smiled. “Gabriel mentioned you the last time I reported.”

This time Crowley nearly choked on his drink. He coughed, cleared his throat, and said, “ _What?”_

“Seems they’ve known all along that you’ve been up here. Asked if I’d ever run across you. No, don’t get worried – I’m not stupid, I didn’t say a word. Only said I’d heard rumors.”

“I never liked Gabriel. Stuffed full of himself.”

“Well, he was worried that you might have started the French revolution. Wondered what other atrocities you would get up to, and he actually suggested that I keep a close watch.”

“Really?” Crowley decided this wasn’t a bad thing. “So if we just happen to run into each other, even in more public places, they might not be overly concerned?”

“Might not – so long as we don’t look _too_ friendly with each other.” Aziraphale set down his glass. “Don’t want _you_ getting into trouble, though.”

“You just worry about Heaven. Let me worry about Hell.”

“Right. Of course.” He picked up the champagne bottle. “Another glass?”

Crowley held his up for a refill, then kept it there. “A toast,” he said. “To your bookshop.”

“Oh, _thank_ you.” 

Aziraphale clinked his glass, and they both drank deeply.

He liked the bookshop.

They met often after that – usually in the park, before or after a meal, and they often repaired to the bookshop after dining. Aziraphale had a very comfortable sofa there, and he kept a fine selection of wine on hand.

It was a place, Crowley realized with some amazement, that he wanted to be more than anywhere else. The bookshop felt like a _home_.

And he had not felt _at home_ in a long, long time.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for Aziraphale to begin fretting again, despite Gabriel’s instructions to keep an eye on Crowley’s activities. The angel had always been good at worrying. 

In the summer of 1851 he met Crowley at the Crystal Palace, where they wandered slowly through the crowded exhibition, blending in. They stopped for ice cream and found a bench to sit on.

Crowley didn’t like crowds. The throng reminded him of the packed corridors of Hell, albeit with a lot more sunshine and a lot fewer unpleasant odors.

“Next time, let’s meet at our regular spot in the park,” he said. 

“I’m worried about that,” Aziraphale replied.

“Whatever for?” He licked at the frozen vanilla. “Something wrong?”

“Archangel Michael was at my last meeting with Gabriel. Seemed unduly suspicious, asked too many questions about my ‘surveillance’ of you.” 

“Never did like Michael.” Well, truth to tell, he hadn’t got on with any of the Archangels. Too high-handed.

“We should perhaps…well, not meet quite so often.” 

He sensed reluctance in the angel’s tone, as if he _had_ to say it, rather than _wanted_ to say it. Someone up There had gotten to the fellow, obviously. “You’re being over-cautious. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m just not… _sure_. They might be watching.”

Crowley sighed. He didn’t want to spend time apart from Aziraphale, not more than he had to. On the other hand, he didn’t want him getting into trouble. Or worse, being taken away from Earth. There was no one else for him here.

He watched Aziraphale lick his fruit-flavored ice in a perfunctory fashion, so unlike his usual enjoyment. And the angel glanced round at the people walking past constantly, apprehension etched in his face.

Crowley touched his coat sleeve for a moment, got his attention, and smiled at the angel. “It’ll be all right.”

Aziraphale didn’t smile in return. 

It was Dagon, Lord of the files, who first got him concerned.

Crowley filed his reports, as usual. He took credit for the Crimean War, which went over so well that he decided to claim responsibility for starting the American Civil War. But when he went down in person in 1862 to tell Lord Beezlebub all about his perfidious activities, his pack of lies, he found that his master had company.

Dagon had never attended one of these sessions before.

“Hey,” Crowley said as coolly as he could manage when he entered Beezlebub’s private chambers. “What’s up?”

“Whatzz up, indeed.” 

He stood before a stone throne that Beezlebub slouched in, with Dagon standing to one side. 

“Hi, there,” Crowley said. 

Dagon took a step toward him, looking distinctly displeased. “I have been looking over the files. Yours, in particular.”

“Nice. I mean, that’s what you do, isn’t it? Lord of the Files. Good stuff.” He shut up. He was babbling. Almost as nervous as a certain angel he knew. _Calm down_.

“Not necesszzarily.” Flies buzzed around Lord Beezlebub’s head.

“Your files contain a report that you personally instigated the Battle of Port Republic, and were responsible for the Confederate victory.”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah, right.” Had he claimed that one? He made so many false reports that he wasn’t even sure of what he’d said. Possibly not that smart.

“This event occurred on June 9,” Dagon said. “It’s curious to me that you were also in Paris that same day, tempting a priest.”

_Uh-oh_. Paris…one of Aziraphale’s favorite places. He’d gone there then to get more of those damned crepes, and to perform a blessing, and he had offered to do one of Crowley’s deeds while there. 

He hadn’t paid enough attention to the dates.

“Yeszz, we found it curious as well.”

“Er, um, just a mix-up, that’s all.” Crowley shrugged, trying to brazen it out. “Got the dates mixed up, I mean. Never was good with calendars. Sorry.”

Dagon stared at him for far too long, then stepped back. “I will be checking more closely in future.”

“Yeah, good. Good idea. No problem. You do that.” There he went babbling again. He bit his lower lip. _Shut it_.

Lord Beezlebub leaned forward on the throne, glaring through the haze of flies. “I hope you haven’t been _lying_ to uszz, Crowley.”

“Nope. Just an ordinary cock-up.”

Beezlebub sank back down, and dismissed him with a bored wave. “No more of thosezz, or elszzz there will be _consequenceszzz._ ”

Crowley turned and walked out as quickly as his shaking legs could carry him.

_Insurance_.

All he wanted was a little reassurance that if Hell ever figured out what he’d been up to all these centuries, that he would have at least one weapon to hand. Holy water – had it really been too much to ask of the angel?

Apparently, it had. He’d been rebuffed, for the wrong reasons, and insulted to boot. _Fraternizing?_ Since when had their friendship devolved to something akin to business associates?

True, Aziraphale had sounded more worried than ever that day in the park, when he’d asked him for holy water. As if the forces of Heaven were as keen on ferreting out wrongdoing as were the forces of Hell.

Maybe that was why he’d been so unkind – the bastards upstairs had him far too distressed.

Still, the words had hurt. They were _friends_. 

Time to step back, he decided.

Time to keep his distance.

And it _hurt_.

Not that he could stay away completely, of course.

Over the ensuing decades he kept an eye on Aziraphale from afar, out of view, enclosed inside a carriage or hidden behind a pillar. He missed his company, but he didn’t approach, or make any attempt to contact him.

In 1926 he bought the car.

The Bentley was a stunning machine. He had it custom made down to the finest details. Crowley loved driving. One of humanity’s better inventions, one he thoroughly adopted, though not so far as to move up to newer models over the years. The Bentley was perfect. It would _last_.

He took to driving it all over the countryside, too fast. The freedom of the road delighted, while the speed thrilled him. And it took him away from London, away from the bookshop – away from what he had lost.

He drove and drove and drove until there were no more roads left.

And then he drove home.

It was ridiculously easy for Crowley to figure out that “Rose Montgomery” was not from British military intelligence, and was, in fact, part of a Nazi spy ring. Aziraphale was far too trusting.

But he let the angel have his fun, believing he was helping the British cause in the war, allowing him to feel brave and smart. He watched more closely, though, knowing it wouldn’t end well.

He had to step in, then – the idea of Aziraphale having to go through discorporation was far too painful. The floor of the church was torture on his feet, but he had to do it, and the look of gratitude on the angel’s face when he handed over the salvaged books was worth the pain.

More than gratitude, in fact.

He had kept his attitude light in the church, though seeing Aziraphale again in person after all those years made him want to clasp him tightly and never let go.

_That look…._

Crowley gave him a lift to the bookshop.

They rode in silence until he pulled up to park across the street. He shut off the engine.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Nice car. Bit fast.”

Crowley patted the dashboard. “Perfect car.” He looked at Aziraphale. “You don’t own one?”

“No. Rather too much for me to handle, I think.”

Yes, that was probably true. “Well, if you need to go anywhere…I’m still in Mayfair, you know.”

“I do know.” 

Those three simple words cut deep into Crowley’s soul. _He’s been keeping track, too_. “Good. Anytime. I mean, I’m happy to take you anywhere you want to go.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replied. He looked over at the bookshop, then back to Crowley. He sighed. “I’ve missed you.”

He wanted to grab the angel and embrace him, but he couldn’t. Not now. They had kept apart to keep Heaven and Hell from figuring out their friendship – nearly destroying that friendship in the process. He couldn’t risk losing that again. He had to stay calm, cool, and collected.

“Let’s have lunch, then,” he said as his heart cried _let’s touch and hold and be loved_. 

He saw the little furrow between Aziraphale’s brows. Was he thinking the same way? Did he understand that they couldn’t be what they wanted to be to each other, not _now_?

Aziraphale closed his eyes and sighed. “I need to tell you—“

“ _Don’t_.” _For both our sakes, don’t tell me_.

The angel choked back tears. “But, my dear fellow—“

“You _can’t_.” Crowley couldn’t stop himself from touching the angel’s hand. “And neither can I.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes, staring straight ahead. He placed his other hand on top of Crowley’s for a moment, and then he opened the car door. “Not forever. I won’t do this _forever_.” 

He stepped out of the Bentley and strode away quickly into the bookshop.

So they resumed their lunches, dinners, and walks in the park, and their drinks at the bookshop. Not as often as before, but often enough.

And one night Crowley was given a flask of holy water, for which he felt grateful, especially knowing what it had cost Aziraphale to do so.

The world went on, and they went on, and Crowley loved the angel without ever saying so, without daring to ever say so. 

He felt Aziraphale’s love in return, without ever hearing it spoken.

The situation was hardly ideal, yet it was a vast improvement over not speaking at all.

_Limbo_ , that’s what his life sometimes felt like. He lived in a place between two ends of eternity – one stretched out behind him like a road through antique lands, where all his memories dwelled, where his life with Aziraphale undulated up and down the hills and valleys – while the other end stretched before him uncertain, lost in future fogs, where he knew the light reached into, but he couldn’t reach it yet. 

He had to believe in that light. He had to believe the fog would rise in the end, that he would not travel the road forever without finding love at the end.

He _had_ to.

_Armageddon._

“Not a nice word,” Crowley said when he met Aziraphale on the park bench. 

“Apocalypse?” Aziraphale offered. “The End Times? Not any better.”

“Why _now?”_

“Six thousand years – it’s written. Part of the divine plan. I suppose that I wanted to forget that it had been that long.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at Crowley. “Don’t be glib. This is not the time.”

“What else can I be?” He had no way to cope with this news. _End of the fucking world_. “If you think I’m going to face down the apocalypse with a stout heart and a brave stand, you are sadly mistaken. If I have to go, I am going with _style_.”

“Yes, well, you do that,” Aziraphale snapped. Then he softened, his voice catching. “You do realize that we’ll be on opposite sides?”

“I don’t want to be on anyone’s side but my own.” Crowley didn’t want a war, and he certainly wasn’t going to fight an angel. There had to be a way to stop this madness. He just needed a really good idea.

They sat for a while in silence. He pondered. He cogitated. He thought furiously of everything he could do or say to convince Aziraphale to help, not hinder. 

The bloody _Antichrist_. Damn.

Off to live with an American diplomat. A babe in arms, a child with a ticking time bomb inside…or had he? The child didn’t come ready-made – the seeds of evil were there, but they hadn’t grown yet. The child had to develop first, before starting the war to end everything. And he had to be _influenced_.

Perhaps that was the key.

“Are you _sure_ it was the Antichrist?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley looked at him, and smiled. 

He had an idea.

They both did their jobs quite well, he thought.

Pity they performed them for the wrong boy.

Eleven years flew by. They lost the Antichrist, they found the right one, and they stopped Armageddon while nearly losing each other in the process.

Crowley sat on the bus to Oxford, which was taking them to London instead, and he held Aziraphale’s hand while thinking quietly about a great many things. 

The past few days had been far too fraught, even for him.

_We’re not friends…I don’t even like you_.

He knew Aziraphale had spoken those words under extreme duress, yet the ache remained. 

Why did he always have to be the one who apologized?

Yet he had. Even after the angel broke his heart, he still went to find him, he still wanted to make amends. He apologized. _Why?_

Obviously, because he loved him.

Hell was a harsh place, but Heaven made Hell look like a nice spot for a picnic when it came to _toeing the line_. He hated Hell, and it had certainly been able to frighten him at times, but he hadn’t _feared_ it the way Aziraphale had feared the wrath of Heaven.

A fear, and a soul-searing dread that had made the angel do anything to avoid that wrath. To speak lies, to sever ties. 

How that must have hurt – how it must hurt still, to know the one thing you believed in, the one place you knew was _good_ , could be so cruel as to punish love.

Crowley sighed as he held Aziraphale’s hand. The day he had been cast out of Heaven, the day he had burned, had once been the day he grieved the most. No longer. 

He always apologized to the angel, and he always forgave him, and he always would, because Heaven wouldn’t. 

_When I’m up in the stars, I won’t even_ think _about you_.

His own lie, and he did regret it. He brushed the back of Aziraphale’s hand. “Do you know, I never would have left the Earth without you, Angel.”

He felt Aziraphale’s hold tighten for an instant. “I certainly wouldn’t have wanted you to.”

“I’m sorry I said it.” 

“Don’t be.” Aziraphale tilted his head to rest it against Crowley’s shoulder. “ _I_ am sorry. For _everything_.”

Crowley closed his eyes. He wanted to shut out the world. No motorway, no car headlights flashing past, no bus, no other passengers. Only the angel’s touch, which was all the world he needed.

They stayed at Crowley’s flat, talking late into the night, trying to decipher the meaning of the final prophecy. When they figured it out at last, and had swapped bodies, they stayed up still, too anxious to sleep.

They couldn’t relax until all was said and done.

Which it was, when they succeeded in fooling Heaven and Hell. 

_“To the world,”_ Crowley said as he offered the champagne toast at the Ritz. By which he meant, “ _to the world and to_ you.”

Aziraphale met the toast with his own, and Crowley knew he meant the same thing.

_Freedom_.

It was a heady word.

He didn’t want to return to his flat. Not ever. He had killed a demon there, and he would always know the stain was there, underneath.

So after their meal, and a few drinks, and another stroll through the park, they went to the bookshop. 

Of course, he’d been inside it once before, since the fire, when he’d been in the angel’s body. Yet it still gave him chills, seeing Aziraphale standing inside. _Alive_. 

He watched as Aziraphale pulled down the door blinds, and turned over the sign to CLOSED, and locked the door. 

And as soon as he turned round, Crowley clutched him in a fierce embrace. “ _Angel.”_

Aziraphale’s arms tightened around his chest, their heads together cheek to cheek.

“Angel, I love you.” _The easiest three words in the world. And the hardest._

He’d waited a long, long time for the freedom to speak those words.

“My dear—“ Aziraphale pulled back a bit to stare at him. His eyes fairly shone with an ethereal light. “ _I_ wanted to be the first to say it.”

“Too late.” Crowley shook his head. Damned if he was going to apologize for _that_. 

“Well, _hell_.” Aziraphale grabbed the back of Crowley’s head and pulled it towards him, into a kiss.

If Heaven were watching, Crowley thought, perhaps they would learn a thing or two.

The angel’s lips were feather-light at first, softly caressing his. Then he got hungry for more. Their mouths parted, their lips and tongues explored together, bringing flame to flame as centuries of chains were loosed at last. 

He had lost the stars of Heaven, and he had defeated the curse of Hell, and what he had left was freedom – what he had left was love unrestrained.

Aziraphale broke the kiss first, put his hand to Crowley’s face, and said, “I love you, too.” 

He kissed the angel’s forehead. He lavished touches over every part of him that he could reach, smooth skin, soft eyelids, rough throat….Aziraphale tasted of sunlight and misty clouds, of starlight and earthlight, he tasted of eternity.

And the touches were returned, and he felt the angel’s questing, agile lips play over his face, his throat, the top of the chest. These were no flashes of love – they were waves of lightning. He thought he must be glowing from the rapture flowing from Aziraphale into him, a fervor of sheer abandon. 

It was beautiful – absolution in every kiss.

It was torment – knowing each touch would end.

_It was perfect._

Aziraphale stopped first, laying a hand on Crowley’s chest. “There were times,” he said softly, “when I wanted to fall from Heaven just to stop the waiting.”

“You wouldn’t have liked it in Hell.” Crowley smiled. “Well, except for the classical composers there.” He stroked Aziraphale’s cheek. “I’m glad you were patient.”

“So am I.”

He took Crowley’s hand and led him into the back of the shop, and into his bedroom. 

Aziraphale slowly and neatly changed into satin pyjamas of an airy off-white color, while Crowley snapped his fingers into his favorite black silk ones.

The sheets were satin as well. Always one for the finer things in life, his angel.

Crowley slid beneath them. He wasn’t going back – this was his home. 

Though he ought to bring the houseplants over…and a certain drawing by Leonardo.

Aziraphale joined him under the sheets, and turned to face him. He lay his arm around Crowley’s chest and pulled him into a light embrace, then relaxed, lying close alongside, head nestled in the crook of Crowley’s shoulder.

“We did it,” Aziraphale whispered into his ear.

“Hm? Did what?”

“We said we loved each other – and no one was listening.” He released a long sigh. “We really _are_ free.”

_We paid the price_ , Crowley thought. We earned this. 

He brushed Aziraphale’s hair. “Forever.” _Whither thou goest, I will go._

“I like the sound of that.” Aziraphale caressed Crowley’s chest. “My friend – my dearest friend. And my love, forever.”

“Hush,” Crowley replied gently. “I want to sleep.” He paused. “In your arms, every single night until the end of time.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. “I will do that.”

Crowley kissed him.

_To the world_ , he thought as he held on to the only true angel on Earth or in Heaven. 

_To all the world I’ll ever need_.


End file.
